Something
by Lamanth
Summary: ONE SHOT – As with every story worth telling it was all about a girl. A girl that I knew but didn’t have the power to hold on to. Sasuke/Ino


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Naruto or any of its characters, merchandise, TV rights, ect… (I think you get the point.) Nor do I own the song 'Wicked Game' by Chris Isaak.

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Summery 

ONE SHOT – As with every story worth telling it was all about a girl. A girl that I knew but didn't have the power to hold on to. (Sasuke/Ino)

Like all of my work this is just something that happened to float through the empty void inside my head. Like it or hate it please R and R as honest opinions are always welcomed, as are random acts of worship.

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Lamb: Not my lightest piece this, it has to be said. But I do think there's some strange macabre beauty to it.

**Muse: **Ego trip much? Do all authors think this much of themselves or am I just cursed?

_Dedi: _We're the ones who are cursed. Anyway this fic is dedicated to **hakuisagirl** as a thank you for becoming Lamb's beta reader. So, **hakuisagirl**, this is for you.

Lamb: As always sorry for any bad spelling and if you feel the need to throw things at me please wait until I've hidden behind the sofa kay!?

M**use: **On with the fic!

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_You and I are under dosed and we're ready to fall,  
Raised to be stupid, taught to be nothing at all,  
I don't like the drugs but the drugs like me,  
I don't like the drugs, the drugs, the drugs,_

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**Something…**

The preparation is the warning.

I watch her, as she meticulously pulls back the sleeve of her shirt, her delicate, spindly fingers moving in exact motions. She is practised in this, her hideous routine, and there is never room to contemplate my questioning. Long ago she would halt, look up from her stale routine to stare off beyond my pleading face, her eyes drooping to look at what she knew could never become reasonable. Feebly attempting honesty, she would invent stories, telling me that someday, _someday_ everything would be all right.

_The world was on fire and no one could save me but you,  
It's strange what desire will make foolish people do.  
I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you,  
I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you,_

At this point she habitually leaves the room, her bare feet tiredly plodding across the bare floors of the apartment towards her bedroom, knowing I can no longer stomach her addictions. She has to have it: the torture, the pleasure, the _something other than this_. Her pale, sickly arms could tell stories, stories that still I'll never share, but her voice sings from the puncture wounds without her help. I can sometimes hear the songs, softly float from her skin, permeating into the room and breaking its stillness.

Sometimes, very rarely, she turns to look back before shutting the door behind herself, her maddening eyes slowly pleading for my forgiveness. Here, I want to answer her, but I cannot form the necessary words. I no longer see a human body, only a paling skeleton, the replacement, her soul empty, colourless vessel where grey canyons have permanently formed beneath her eyes. Her voice is gone by now, all forms of communication wrapped in desire for the opiate, the prescribed cure for the noises inside her head, the music of wanting.

I turn around, not wanting to stare, or to speak.

_No, I don't want to fall in love,  
This world is only gonna break your heart,  
No, I don't want to fall in love,  
This world is only gonna break your heart,  
With you, with you,_

I hate the wait, the waiting for her mind's orchestral cacophony to dissipate into a white noise, for her empty eyes to cloud over and her body to limply fall into a dead sleep upon her unmade bed. I look for something, anything to occupy my distressed mind. I pace the room, angrily pulling at my hair, twisting it tightly around my fingers. Quietly turning on the stereo, I immediately let its sound swallow the room, attempting to drown my thoughts away. I lie on the floor, gradually light a cigarette, and take a deep drag. Inhale. Exhale. Constantly I tell myself not to smoke, but I want the purification, for something to fill my body other than the thoughts of her and the scarred insides of her arms.

Lying on the floor, I slowly begin to drift towards sleep, dangling on the rift between lucidity and dreams. The record has long ago finished, and the white fuzz of the ancient speakers continues to travel through the apartment. My cigarette has long ago faded and burned into a pile of ash on the floor, the end still threaded through my fingers.

_What a wicked game to play,  
To make me feel this way.  
What a wicked thing to do,  
To let me dream of you.  
What a wicked thing to say,  
You never felt this way.  
What a wicked thing to do,  
To make me dream of you,_

It is here that I wish to create the lines of dialogue, the musical notes I wish to write to her, my ballad of saying goodbye. Each time she turns, begging for the forgiveness she knows she will never obtain, I want to perform the goodbye, my sadly straining notes of leaving, of moving on, of moving on to the _something other than this_. I want to pick up my worn guitar and strum the notes of sadness, the forlorn minor chords that I have forever known by heart. I want to take my song, to lay her down in bed and lull her to sleep until there is nothing for her worry about, not even the addiction.

I want to close my eyes and see her as a whole woman, the woman I love, not the fragmented ghost. I want to see her once child-like and youthful face, smiling, singing along with my improvisational guitar. I want to remember the vividly intricate hues of blue in her eyes, her thick, waist length hair, and the shadows that morning's sunlight caused in the curves of her collarbone. I miss the smooth skin hiding beneath her clothes, and normality in the smell of her sweat. I was addicted to her touch, her smooth, syrupy voice, and her manic laugh. I once could not contemplate an existence without them. She was my exclusive narcotic, my momentary infatuation, an addiction that lasted longer than first planned. But I cannot give her what she wants. The drugs are her ally, her all consuming love, not me.

And in her world of moments between the next high, I am unimportant.

_And I don't want to fall in love,  
This world is only gonna break your heart,  
No, I don't want to fall in love,  
This world is only gonna break your heart,  
With you,_

I have to leave, for I cannot emit the songs I desire to sing. My throat is dry, crackling from the ineffective smoke of my cigarette.

I am in the middle of the room. There are sixteen feet to the bedroom, sixteen to the front door. I almost can not make up my mind, but I act at the instant of decision.

Slowly standing up, my back aching from my lengthy time on floor, I wearily walk towards the bedroom. The door is open slightly, and it creaks as I cautiously enter. With her eyes closed and body asleep, she is curled up around herself on the bed, tangled in a mess of black cotton sheets. The room is faintly lit by white fairy lights that have been strung throughout the sparse furniture, giving her a halo of illumination. She does not stir at my approach, nor is her breathing weighted and heavy. Gently leaning over the side of the bed, I rearrange her limbs until there is order amongst the threadbare linens. Cringing at her newly appearing bruises, I can feel a murky heartbeat as I relocate her arms.

Her veins feverishly pump her newly damaged blood throughout her body.

My angel has been poisoned.

Sweeping my shaking fingers across her lips, I softly place fleeing kisses against her closed eyes, the only goodbye I have the energy to perform.

_The world was on fire and no one could save me but you,  
It's strange what desire will make foolish people do.  
I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you,  
I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you,_

I do not look upwards to the windows as I exit the apartment building, hurriedly making my way down the street, dodging those walking in the opposite direction. Showing no form of my former weakness, I will not permit tears to escape my eyes, having hardened my face to equal those of the other pedestrians. My mind begins to replace my thoughts of her with new beginnings, thoughts of riding the subway home, thoughts of buying another pack of my cancerous cigarettes, and thoughts finding a decent cup of coffee.

I pull my coat closer around myself, and dig out enough change for the journey homeward.

Underground, on the subway I speed away from her neighbourhood, staring blankly at the numerous empty expressions in the subway car, their faces returning the same vacant stares.

The next time she prepares for the opiate, I will not be there to watch over her and deny her pleading face. I will be in another part of the city, singing my song to another, another new love.

_No I don't want to fall in love,  
This world is only gonna break your heart,  
No, I don't want to fall in love,  
This world is only gonna break your heart,  
With you, with you,  
Nobody loves no one,_

I will later read about an ambulance speedily racing across the city on a crisp Spring morning to the apartment of an unnamed woman. A worried neighbour will come to check on her, fearful of the absence of activity. Her door will be unlocked and the small rooms of her apartment frigid. The neighbour will carefully tiptoe, wandering into the bedroom only to find her coldly lying in bed, twisted into a foetal position between her stark black sheets. The ambulance will arrive, but she will have been gone for hours. Through an autopsy, the death will be discovered. She will be distinctively killed by an unsightly overdose, the too much of _something_, the terrifying_ something other than this_. No one will know the face of the Jane Doe; her obituary revealing her swollen arms rather than a once resonant and glowing face.

I will survive, for my secret lies in having been the only one to know her name. The name of my poisoned, golden angel.

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Lamb: Like I said, not the lightest thing I've ever written. But what can I do? I probably have the word ANGST tattooed on my soul or something.

**Muse: **Hands up everyone who'd like to get close to Lamb's soul while holding a needle?

_Dedi:_ Oh shut up and **hakuisagirl,** we hope you liked it.

Please R and R I'd love to know what you thought.

Big love and inspiration

Lamanth


End file.
